


Reforging Ties

by glacis



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uruk-hai fight over Legolas. Aragorn and Gimli settle the question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reforging Ties

_Reforging Ties.  Sequel to [Binding Ties](http://www.castleskeep.net/Binding_Ties.htm).  With special thanks to G &amp; S for the dress rehearsal and the shower scene, and to MG &amp; MfG for the enthusiasm. (note : accent marks are shown with apostrophes)_

When Aragorn mounted a Hobbit-rescue expedition to hunt Orcs, even as oddly-matched as the trio of hunters were, Orcs were hunted. To the ends of Middle Earth, if necessary. Days stretched endlessly, until even the fervor of Man, the stamina of Elves and the strength of Dwarves were pulled thin. It was only a matter of time until something unexpected happened.

Legolas hadn't expected it to happen to him. And if it had, he hadn't expected it to be what it was. But then, that was the nature of the unexpected.

That, and the fact that it was inevitably painful.

Running lightly ahead, forward scout for the remnants of the Fellowship as they headed into Hell, he heard them before he saw them and smelled them before he heard them. His foreknowledge was of no use whatsoever. Before he could cry warning they were upon him, Orcs like a plague on the earth, Saruman's terrible creations at their heels.

They swarmed past him faster than he could kill them, then the Uruk-hai surrounded him, and he knew Death was nigh. His blades and bow were no match for the combined mass of them and he fell before their rank weight, near retching from the stench, eyes blinded and limbs bound, his struggles useless to defeat them. A sudden sharp pain struck his head from behind.

Then there was only darkness.

It was the smell that woke him, a surprise in itself since he'd never expected to wake. It was night, but there were no comforting sounds of the forest. Only the crackle of flames, the snuffling of Orcs circling just beyond the reach of light from the fire, and the grunting sounds of his captors, ripping apart the carcass of a half-raw deer and consuming it in greedy gulps.

Legolas peered through nearly-closed eyes at the scene, unobtrusively testing the strength of the chain binding his wrists. The largest of Saruman's hounds suddenly sniffed the air, then turned to look directly at him. Legolas froze.

Playing dead did him no good. The creature made a sound that might have been laughter, and Legolas shivered despite his resolve. He'd seen evil in the great northern forest of Mirkwood, as the effluvium of Mordar seeped out, contaminating Middle Earth. But he had never been so close to, nor so personally under the gaze of, pure evil incarnate. It was only with great effort that he contained his shiver and kept still.

Unbeknownst to their little band, it had been a game of hunt and be hunted for days, as the Three searched for the Hobbits and the Uruk-hai searched for the one who slew their leader. Aragorn had killed the one who'd mortally injured Boromir, when the Hobbits were taken, and it would seem from the result that revenge was bred along with rage in the Goblin-Orc half-breeds. Legolas, caught in the lynx-like stare of the enemy, wondered briefly what form that revenge might take.

His imagination had little time to work.

With a snuffling groan, the one who'd sniffed him out lumbered to his feet. He was tall, taller even than Legolas, and broad as a wall, skin mottled gray and stained black with blood. His fingers were curled, his broken nails like claws as they reached for Legolas' throat. Legolas dipped his head, biting before the creature could crush his neck, and clamped down as hard as he could, sharp teeth tearing the leathery skin, vile blood spilling over his tongue.

The Uruk-hai laughed at him, a strange, glottal sound, trapped in the chest then rattled through the mouth. Legolas was forced to loosen his hold before he choked on the blood filling his mouth, and the creature back-handed him, nearly breaking his jaw. He began to cough, trying to clear his airway to breathe, but before he could catch his breath a huge paw dug into his hair, scratching his scalp and ripping at his braids.

Reacting with a warrior's inbred instinct, he tried to fight, kicking up with legs staked to the ground and lashing out with arms chained behind his back, arching his spine to ease the pressure before his head was torn from his shoulders. His efforts were to no avail. His captors knew well the strength and resourcefulness of Elves and had tethered him securely in anticipation of just such an attempt at escape.

Others came from the fire then, gathering around him, grunting encouragement to the one holding him so painfully. Legolas felt rivulets of blood trail through his hair, spilling across his nape and trickling down the side of his neck. The flesh at his wrists and ankles was also rent from his struggles, and he felt blood begin to flow unsteadily over his knuckles, down over feet he only now realized were bare. Glancing across camp as best he could, he saw his weapons, his cloak, his boots, his belt, tossed in a pile next to the stripped bones of the deer.

Unable to fight, unable to evade, he forced himself to watchful stillness, drawing on the patience that served him so well in the forest. Either he would have an opportunity to escape or he would die. His task was to survive until such opportunity presented itself, or die well. If a choice was offered, he preferred the former.

The Uruk-hai holding him sniffed again, leaning closer until he was inches from Legolas. The stench was near overpowering, and the pain in his scalp and where the chains rubbed him raw were the only things that gave him purchase on reality. He bit his lip, commanding his belly be still, determined not to retch over himself and give the creatures more sport.

The snuffling snout came closer still, and a rough, dry tongue rasped out over the side of his neck. He couldn't contain his tiny yelp of surprise, as the Uruk-hai lapped up the blood dripping down his skin. Legolas had the horrified thought that the creature meant to consume him, raw and bleeding, alive, and he shuddered, fighting down a scream.

Broken teeth grazed him, causing fresh blood to flow, which in turn was lapped up greedily as a dog at a stream. Legolas' eyes closed, and he began to chant silently, a lament for the dying, an apology to those he left behind, task unfinished.

To his vague shock, the grazing never deepened into biting, as the Uruk-hai rooted around below the fall of his hair, licking his nape, tearing at his tunic to get at the blood darkening the material. The night air felt cool on his skin, a relief from the heat generated by the body of the creature, who was now so close as to be blanketing him.

A trailing claw caught his nipple, and he hissed, the red slash of pain making it impossible to remain completely silent. The snuffling along his shoulder paused, and the great head lifted. Yellow eyes shot through with blood gazed down at him, and he found himself unable to break the stare.

Somewhere behind the animal instinct there was the gleam of intellect. Vicious, brutal and basic, but enduring. Legolas had caught its attention, and once captured, there was no escape. He knew the instant the creature's intention veered from sustenance to torment. It showed clearly in the narrowing of the eyes, the curling of the blood-stained snout, the way the clawed hand kneaded his shoulder, piercing leather and flesh indiscriminately.

Survival instinct flew from him in a flash of unadulterated panic. Thoughts of opportunity and patience perished in the need to escape immediately or die in the attempt. Fresh blood flowed from his limbs as he wrenched them frantically, unheeding of the damage, knowing only that he would not bear the Uruk-hai's mark on him. Nor would he be corrupted as had the unfortunates who became the forebears of the Orcs.

Not that his resolve stood him in good stead. If anything, his renewed struggles enflamed the creature, prompting a low, keening cry. The hand tangled in his hair ripped away, taking strands with it, hooked fingers catching in his laces and tearing his tunic from neck to hip. The blouse beneath it was no barrier to the determination to shred, and soon it was in tatters.

A latticework of thin cuts oozed blood in the wake of the roving claws. The sight of his naked skin and the fresh wounds upon it excited the other Uruk-hai, who began an agitated grunting, shifting closer, a hand reaching forward, then another. The creature mauling Legolas growled warning at them, and they shuffled back, but not far.

Gleaming eyes watched, thin black saliva oozing from gaping snouts, as Legolas was stripped to his skin, leggings going the way of his tunic and blouse. Even the scant protection of the tatters themselves were taken from him, as his captor ripped the material free and tossed it away. Terror drove Legolas' actions, and even in the unbreakable grip of the creature he tried to squirm away, burrow into the very earth if necessary to escape.

He sustained further scrapes and abrasions from the rocky ground on his unprotected skin, eyes locked to the face of the creature. Silent cries of denial issued from his lips which no one heard but that echoed in his mind. The Uruk-hai snarled again as the others began to close in, then rose to his full height, legs straddling Legolas' hips, and stared down at the captive Elf.

 

The lack of warning from Legolas in the few scant moments before the wave of attacking Orcs hit them was worrisome. Or would become so, later, when the fight for their lives had abated to chasing the last few shrieking Orcs back through the darkness of the forest from whence they came in order to finish them off. As it was, Gimli had time for nothing more than a growl of defiance as the Orcs swarmed from the trees and surrounded Aragorn and himself.

His ax up and swinging into the first swell of rank bodies, Gimli quickly lost sight of Aragorn. That also would have been worrisome, had it not been for the screams of dying Orcs falling like music on his ears not far away in the trees. The Orcs were cunning, in an animal sense, and it took all his concentration to cut them down without sustaining debilitating injury to himself. Cuts and bruises were nothing to a Dwarf, although the ichor coating the arrows could do damage.

So he fought with typical single-mindedness, working his way steadily back in the direction of his companions, slogging through blood-heavy mud that clung to his boots and over mounds of fetid flesh that assaulted his nose and made the bile rise in his throat. But Dwarves are nothing if not determined, and he set his teeth, swung ax and blade, and killed every foul creature in sight until finally he caught sight of Aragorn.

The Man was whirling and ducking, blade flashing through dark flesh, blood flowing freely, but not from Aragorn. He was nigh drenched in the disgusting stuff, and Gimli allowed himself a grim smile at how much scrubbing would be needed to rid themselves of the aftermath of battle.

The sheer volume of Orcs was a promising sign. They must be nearing the place where the Hobbits were held, to be coming upon their enemies in such numbers.

After nearly an hour of combat, his ax leaden in his hands, his beard dripping gore and his spine twisted from exertion, the last of the remaining Orcs fell.

None lived to scurry away and cry havoc to their fellows. When the remnants of the Fellowship arrived at the door to retrieve their Hobbits, there would be no advanced warning.

Aragorn made his way to Gimli's side, picking his way through the corpses and dying littering the forest. The air still echoed with the last fading screams and curses, and Gimli's ears were full of the ringing shock of weapon against weapon, ax against armor. It took him a moment to shake the buzz from his ears, and so he missed Aragorn's question. He gave the Man a quizzical look, and Aragorn repeated himself, his tone urgent.

"Have you seen Legolas?"

No. Oh, no. His eyes met the shadowed green of the heir to Gondor and saw the fear he could not suppress reflected there. "We search," he managed to say through a throat gone dry, and Aragorn's tense nod echoed his trepidation.

The aftermath of battle was always disgusting, never moreso than when the dead were creations of the dark. It was nauseating work, sorting through the corpses and body parts piled in the underbrush, looking in vain for a flash of golden hair, the delicate line of Elven limbs, the curve of a dark-wood bow.

The search lasted longer than the battle had, as they worked deeper and deeper into the woods. It was near dawn when Gimli heard a choked-off "No!" from a stone culvert some ways to the south.

He covered the ground as if his heels had wings and he had just risen from bed, while in truth his limbs felt made of base rock and his eyes as if he hadn't slept in weeks. He half-ran, half-slid down the score in the earth until he was by Aragorn's side. The Man stared at a small object in the palm of his hand.

"What have you found of Legolas?" Gimli asked, masking his fear with impatience. Aragorn swallowed, tore his eyes from the object which appeared to have him mesmerized, and held it out for Gimli to see.

The clasp from Legolas' cloak.

Gimli swallowed as well, as his throat tightened. There was blood on the clasp, and it was not Orc-black. Looking away before his emotions betrayed him, his eyes picked out the shape of tooled leather tossed carelessly on the ground. Shakily he reached out for it.

The archer's quiver, with a single broken arrow still held within.

The leather was cold under his fingers, or perhaps that was the cold moving through him reflected back from the quiver. Legolas would not willingly leave such a thing behind, which meant there were two possibilities, neither one promising. Either he was dead, or he was taken against his will.

Gimli looked up at Aragorn, who was staring at the quiver as if it were a poisonous snake. Unthinking, Gimli gathered the arrows scattered in the grass and pushed them into the quiver, then placed it over his shoulder.

"We will find him," Aragorn said quietly, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he strode off in the direction of the marks of struggle torn into the earth above where the quiver was dropped. Gimli followed.

He didn't bother to wonder, aloud, what they might discover when they did find Legolas.

Neither did Aragorn.

 

Legolas stared wildly around at the Uruk-hai, now growling challenges at their leader, who screamed back at them. Their cowering lessened as their courage, or their hunger, overcame their fear. He had the sinking feeling when their fear abated completely, he would die.

Suddenly, the Uruk-hai above him lifted a hand and swiped it across his torso, opening furrows with his claws that stung like fire. Legolas restrained a scream through pure willpower and by biting his lips until he tasted blood. The hand lifted again, and another line of fire blazed from his shoulder across his chest. Then another, along his belly, not deep enough to eviscerate, but deep enough for bright blood to well from the cuts and for Legolas' body to shudder from the impact.

None of which sent the fear rocketing through him to the extent that the creature's next move did. The Uruk-hai tore at his body armor, baring his groin above Legolas' supine body. Had he any strength left, Legolas would have fought yet again. As it was, he twisted weakly in his chains, determined not to give the creature the satisfaction of his submission.

To his intense shock, rape was not the next torment he faced. Rather, with a yowl the others echoed, the Uruk-hai released his urine in a hot, bitter spray over the cuts he'd etched in Legolas' skin. The stench alone nearly made Legolas vomit as he was bathed in the cloudy yellow fluid, but it was nothing to the pain as it washed into his skin.

Adrenaline jolted through him as the acidic bite of the urine ate at him, salt to his wounds, turning fire to molten lava everywhere it touched. It splashed over his belly, his legs, then up along his chest, shoulders and even onto his face. He tried to turn his head away but he had no leeway in his bindings, so he clenched his jaw and shut his eyes against the onslaught. A line of bitter fire slid along the join of his lips, catching in the raw wounds from where he'd bitten himself, and he gasped involuntarily.

The movement left him vulnerable as a final gout of urine hit him in the face, coating his tongue. He retched and spat, but was unable to rid himself of the taste. His eyes watered and he choked, trying to breathe, trying not to inhale the stench, which intensified the taste.

There were few times in his long life when Legolas had prayed to lose consciousness, but this was one of them. He was near the end of his endurance, from the long hunt, the futile battles, the crumbling of the Fellowship. To be tormented by such as these, in such a manner, added a layer of pain to his body and mind he would escape in any way possible. Unfortunately, Elves were a hardy race, and not only did he remain conscious, but he could feel his skin trying to heal around and over the pollution dripping across it.

The sole benefit of the acid bath of the leader's urine was that the other Uruk-hai, muttering angrily, retreated away from him. As a mark, it was effective, if incredibly foul. As if satisfied that the others recognized his claiming, the creature rubbed at Legolas' body, claws catching, opening new wounds for the stinging urine to invade.

No place was left unmarked, as he thrust his hands below Legolas' body, running his fingers over his back, along his buttocks, down his legs, then dropped him on the urine-drenched ground. Fire lanced through Legolas' skin, wrapping around his spine and making the long muscles in his arms and legs quiver.

Still he made no sound.

Time passed, as it must, although it seemed to Legolas to take on a fluid quality, and it moved with the slow pace of ice melting on the lake in winter. There was heat, and his eyes marked sunlight, but it was blocked out by the shadow of his tormentor, followed by moments of agony intense enough to send him out of his own body. Eventually, there were rare, precious moments of unconsciousness, for which he was thankful, and which never lasted long enough.

The leader of the Uruk-hai made certain that the others didn't touch him by hovering near him. Food was brought, but Legolas refused it, spitting it out when it was forced between his lips. A drop of marrow from the deer's bones helped mask the taste of urine still clinging to his tongue, and for that he was grateful, but he would do nothing to prolong his life in captivity. His acts of defiance earned him punishment, as the creature slapped, clawed and kicked him until the pain grew great enough to take him to blessed darkness.

A shock of cold water drenching him brought him back to wakefulness, and was a blessing only because it cleaned his wounds a little. The blessing was mixed in that he was awake, and with the lessening of the leader's scent, the other Uruk-hai began to circle him again. Legolas thought he heard frustration lacing the anger in the leader's challenging snarls, but his thoughts were beginning to float, making concentration difficult.

Night came, and with the darkness, distraction for his tormentors, allowing him a blissful few hours of exhausted rest. He continued to work at his chains with a dogged, mindless determination that required no thought, merely blind refusal to desist. Delicate movements relied on the lack of attention from his captors, but also drew his mind back to his body, and kept his attention from the pain wracking him.

Escape was paramount in his thoughts, when he could think. Survival was beyond his control.

The next day was like the first, or perhaps it had been three, Legolas wasn't certain. It didn't seem important. All that mattered was the need to escape. His body and his mind seemed almost two separate entities. His body was slave to the Uruk-hai, reacting to the pain inflicted on him as it must, while his mind focused on other things : loosening the chains, denying reality, dreaming of Mirkwood, fantasizing of revenge involving vast quantities of black blood spread over a large area along with the disparate body parts currently making up the creatures that were torturing him.

Unfortunately, his mind drifted, and it was his undoing. The Uruk-hai leader bounded over to Legolas, screaming in anger and backhanding him, stunning him. A line of fire opened over his cheek where callused knuckles impacted, and his eyes watered until he couldn't see. As it happened, he didn't need to see, because he could feel.

The creature pulled him up from the ground by his hair, tearing open the wounds that had begun to heal on his scalp, and screamed incomprehensibly into his face for long seconds. When he was thrown back to the ground, he was turned, so that he landed prone, face digging into the boggy ground. He reared his head back and spat until his mouth was clear, then choked as pain lanced through his wrists so strongly it felt as if his hands would surely be torn off.

Bones ground but didn't break as the chains binding him were looped and tightened until the blood flowed freely over them. For the first time since he'd been captured, the Uruk-hai uttered words Legolas could understand.

"No escape. Mine."

The slice of agony across his back took him unawares, and his mouth opened, but he clamped it shut again. He would not give his tormentor the satisfaction of hearing him scream. The beating continued, across his shoulders, over his bound arms, along his flanks and legs until the bones ached and the skin wept blood. Waves of pain washed over him, and he fluctuated between awareness and unconsciousness, his only resolve remaining that he would not break.

He didn't know when the beating ended, or when night fell, because all he could see was the ground beneath his face. He couldn't feel the touch of the wind, as his skin was numb where it wasn't flayed raw. His ears and his nose mapped the world for him, narrowed as it was to the camp.

He heard mutters among the Uruk-hai, slobbering and grinding as they ate, shuffling feet as they crept near him, hoping to escape their leader's notice. Their smell overpowered even the stench in which he lay, making him sick at his stomach. If he'd had anything left to vomit, he might have, even with the threat of suffocation.

The slow advance was discovered, of course, and the creature who'd claimed him screamed in rage at the temerity of the others. Legolas wondered dully what would come now, if he would be bathed again in stinking urine, if he would be cut and torn until he finally bled out.

A tiny voice whispered in his mind that it would be a blessing to die. Before he could be broken. Before he could be turned into an abomination. He tried to ignore the voice, but it was insidious.

Then all distraction left him as the creature broke the shackles from his legs. Wrenching pain shook him from his ankles all along his body, and he swallowed a moan, fighting to maintain control of his voice, if nothing else. He hunched over, a warrior's survival instinct moving his muscles when no other thought remained. His legs curled, his knees going under him, preparatory to launching himself in one final, desperate fight.

With a sudden movement, the Uruk-hai jerked his head back and slapped him again, knuckles catching him across the injured cheekbone. His head jolted in the creature's grip, the impact stunning him. In retrospect that moment of pain was a small mercy in a time of too little to be had, as it spared him the full impact of what happened next, and without doubt saved his sanity.

There was the impression of weight, as his legs were pulled out from under him and spread wide. Spasms of agony hit at his ankles, his hips, the small of his back, his shoulders, and spikes of pain ran down his arms into his bound hands. The weight shifted, and a new world of agony opened in his arse, as the Uruk-hai forced his bulk in, shoving brutally. Legolas felt tears leak from the corners of his tightly-closed eyes as the gnarled flesh moved within him, tearing him open, crushing him down.

The violation continued until all Legolas knew was the black-red wall of agony riding his body, blanketing his mind. His awareness contracted, until not even the camp was included, only the creature rutting in him. Rough-edged armor shredded skin already broken and enflamed, and pitch-black saliva drooled onto his shoulder and dripped down his back, adding new layers of pain to old.

Dirt ground into his cheek, mud caking his skin from his tears mixing with the befouled earth on which he was ridden. Blood and urine combined with dirt to create a cast that covered his chest, caked his legs and feet. He could no longer feel his hands, and from his shoulders to his knees he knew nothing but agony. He thought it could get no worse.

Then the Uruk-hai bellowed, and a rush of fluid that burned more harshly than the acid urine exploded into his body. It felt as though the creature's semen seared through his guts, eating away at him until his very heart was consumed. The first gout was followed by a second, then a third, all equally fierce, equally deep, until Legolas felt as though he had been hollowed out and filled with fire.

Gulping air, he felt the scream he'd been fighting since his ordeal began work its way up from his chest. Desperately he clenched his jaw shut over it, but his determination crumbled before the violation he endured. His lips curled back, his head arched, and he screamed his agony to the night.

He was still screaming when the creature grunted, shifted against him, and began to thrust again. He screamed until the agony overcame him, and he fell into darkness, body at the mercy of the Uruk-hai buried deep in his gut.

 

Tracking had gone slowly, as the forest was befouled by the Orcs they had already killed. Aragorn gave silent thanks to the lessons learned at Elrond's court, at Arwen's beckoning, at Legolas' side. As well, he swore an oath, no less meant for its silence. By the blood running through his veins, he would not lose another friend. He had lost Gandalf to the demon in the dark, Boromir to the demon in the day. He would not lose Legolas.

Legolas was too important to him.

Gimli labored behind him, shorter stride compensated by the determination in his heart. Legolas was too important to Gimli to lose, as well, whether Dwarf and Elf had settled their ingrained differences or not. There was an easing between them that boded well for the future. If there was a future.

Aragorn refused to believe that Legolas was dead. As the sun set on the third day after the battle, his belief was rewarded.

Horrifically.

A single Orc, scavenging for food, caught his eye, and he held up a hand for Gimli to stop. They stayed there, frozen, as the Orc raised his snout and sniffed the air. Beady eyes stared up at them, then past and beyond them, ranging for a threat barely perceived. Eventually the alarm passed from the twisted body, but the search for food was abandoned and he headed back the way he came.

Aragorn and Gimli followed, the one silent as the night itself, the other far enough back that their pursuit was not discovered. A few miles deeper into the forest, Aragorn saw the glow of fires edging the sky, and slowed further. Creeping along a rise as delicately as mist rising, he settled behind a stand of brush and peered down at the encampment below.

There were Orcs ranging along the outer perimeter of the camp, eyeing the woods edgily. No doubt wondering where their fellows were. He allowed a thin smile at the thought that they would wait in vain for a return that would never happen. With a muffled grunt, Gimli dropped beside him, peering through the brush. They were far enough from the camp that the sound didn't give away their position, yet close enough to reconnoiter the area preparatory to rescuing Legolas, if he was indeed within.

Past the ring of guardian Orcs was the heart of the camp. A fire, a pile of bones, a small group of Uruk-hai clustered around a captive. Aragorn's heart leapt to his throat.

Legolas. Bound at their feet, body bared, blood and filth smearing his fine skin. Beside him, Gimli growled, a soft, dangerous sound barely smothered by his beard. Aragorn agreed, but there was as yet nothing they could do. The Orcs were too alert, and their numbers were such that without the element of surprise he and Gimli would be killed before they got near Legolas. They must wait for daylight, when the Orcs would go to ground, when their chances were best to effect rescue.

He whispered his reasoning to Gimli in response to the Dwarf's restive movements, and Gimli reluctantly agreed, burrowing comfortably into the earth and preparing himself for a wait. Aragorn settled next to him, eyes flitting over the camp, seeking and finding ingress and egress, defensive positions and areas of weakness in the enemy.

The hours crept by, and the creatures ringing Legolas grew agitated. Aragorn leaned forward, eyes burning through the darkness, as if his attention could somehow prevent the carnage he feared to come.

The largest of the Uruk-hai screamed challenge at the others and in a move that filled Aragorn with trepidation, broke free the chains binding Legolas' legs. There was still fight in the Elf, as he gathered himself to spring into attack or perhaps to run. He got the chance to do neither.

The monster kicked Legolas' knees out from under him, held him up by the hair, raised a clawed hand and hit him hard across the face. Gimli made a tiny sound of outrage. Aragorn placed a hand on Gimli's shoulder, fingers digging into the bunched muscle. Not yet.

Not yet.

The nightmare before them intensified. The Uruk-hai forced Legolas' thighs apart and mounted him in a single thrust. Aragorn saw the shudder rip through Legolas' body, echoing through his own in sympathy. The shoulder beneath his hand tensed further until it felt like granite, and he found himself muttering, "Not yet," aloud. Gimli growled softly, with each exhalation, and Aragorn nodded, but restrained them both. "If we go now, we doom all of us to death."

"They're hurting him," Gimli whispered, his voice breaking. Aragorn swallowed, the fingers of his free hand clenching in a fist until the knuckles turned white.

"If we attack now, they will kill him." He didn't know it for certain, but he did know that they would fail if they attacked while darkness lay on the land and the Orcs stood between them and their quarry. And they could not fail, or Legolas would die. Or worse.

In response to his words, Gimli made a noise that might have been agreement, might have been a curse, might have been a strangled sob. But he subsided, and together, they watched.

Legolas was strong, but even the strongest will break. When the Uruk-hai howled and bucked against him, Aragorn and Gimli heard the first sound from their friend. The scream that issued from Legolas' throat made their flesh crawl and stopped their hearts, pierced their souls and made them nearly mindless in the need to end his agony.

Nearly, but not quite.

Gimli did jolt forward with a low battle cry, unable to catch himself, but none heard his noise over the sounds of the defilement at the center of the camp. The Orcs were watching the Uruk-hai and the Uruk-hai were concentrating on their captive, giving Aragorn the chance to throw himself on Gimli and drag him bodily back behind the brush.

Tears stood in the deep-set eyes glaring up into his own, and he knew the Dwarf saw the same in his. Helplessness in the face of their friend's suffering sat ill on them both.

"What use will we be if we're killed before we can get near him?" he asked again, his voice low and rough. Gimli glared at him for a long moment, the screaming continuing below them, making him shake. Finally, Gimli shook his head.

"None, and I know it, but it kills me to hear him like this."

Aragorn had nothing to say in response. Return to his watch, fighting past the need to lash out that roared through him, he paid penance for his forced inaction by witnessing the crimes committed against his companion. The Uruk-hai would pay in blood for this.

With an abruptness that took them by surprise and chilled them through to the bone, Legolas' scream cut off. The silence in the wake of agony was oppressive, weighing them down almost as much as the sound had. Aragorn stared at the Uruk-hai still moving over Legolas' still form, and prayed in his heart that when their opportunity came, they would not be too late.

Much too long after the scream that hardened their resolve to iron, the Uruk-hai dropped Legolas' limp body to the ground. Snarling at the others, who slunk away from his posturing, he returned to the fire and tore into the shank of meat lying on the stones ringing the pit. Aragorn marked him well, for he would be the nexus of the attack. Then he stared down at Legolas, willing movement, willing any sign of life.

His will was answered by the thin draw of breath shifting Legolas' back, the unsteady, shaky curling of the long legs up against his body. No further movement came, but it was enough to sustain hope in the final few hours before daybreak.

Aragorn and Gimli were on the move as the Orcs began to fade into the forest, seeking shelter from the light in its shadows. They used the sound of the partial withdrawal to cover their own unavoidable noise as they slipped past the sentries into the dark heart of the camp.

Drawing nearer, they saw the Uruk-hai, unafraid of the sunlight, begin to gather around Legolas yet again. They bickered amongst themselves in a tongue foreign to Aragorn, but their intentions were clear. Even the leader despoiling Legolas had not been warning enough to keep them away. The one who was most to blame for Legolas' anguish pushed through the encircling Uruk-hai, barking out a hoarse challenge to the others, prowling near his victim, eyeing his fellows with a loathing they appeared to share.

There would be no further torture at the Hellish creature's hands, Aragorn swore beneath his breath. His eyes met Gimli's, and as one they sprang into attack. Distracted as they were with infighting over their captive, the Uruk-hai were a scant beat too slow to respond. Four fell to mortal blows of sword and ax before the others rallied to their weapons.

Aragorn built on the momentum of their surprise, moving more swiftly than he had ever fought. Dodging blows from fists the size of a Man's head, dancing out of range of the bent blades of the enemy, he cut clean, removing heads from necks efficiently and brutally. From the corner of his eye he saw Gimli, ax swinging so swiftly the haft was but a blur of brown, leaving pieces of Uruk-hai scattered in a bloody wake behind him.

Then another movement caught his attention. He pivoted, thrust his sword up to gut one monster, pulled the blade out of the remains and swung it down behind him with all the strength in his back, slicing another in twain from the groin up. Glancing through the black blood spattering his face, he squinted and saw what he feared.

The leader was heading through the carnage, paying no heed to the cries of the dying, intent on returning to his captive. A blade gleamed dully in his clawed fist.

"Gimli!" Aragorn cried. "Behind you! See to Legolas!"

With a roar of rage unleashed, the Dwarf did just that.

 

His world had been fire and pain, centered in and existing solely within himself, when chaos beyond the boundaries of his own broken skin drew him from the darkness and flame back to the Hell on earth that was reality.

Legolas heard the battle before he could pry his eyes open. The scent of fresh Uruk-hai blood pushed his agony back, as the warrior in his heart greeted battle with renewed strength. He didn't know from whence it came, but he would draw upon it until it was empty. He would triumph over his enemies or perish in the attempt.

The sight that met his eyes when he lifted his head made no sense at first. There were a few dead Orcs sprawled in the far distance beyond the fire. Severed arms and heads and a few splintered torsos were piled in untidy heaps around the clearing. They were all Uruk-hai. For a confused moment he wondered if there had been mutiny in the camp, and the creatures had turned on one another.

Then he heard a battle cry he recognized, and Gimli son of Glo'in exploded from the center of a knot of Uruk-hai, blood and gore erupting from the bodies of his enemies as he came forth. Then to his right, the familiar ring of an Elvish blade wielded by the hand of Man, as the Chief of the Du'nedain, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, cut through the Uruk-hai like a scythe through a thicket of weeds.

Hope trickled through his abused spirit, and he fought to rise, falling under the weight of his injuries. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, and failed. The third time he made it to his knees. He paused there for a necessary moment to catch his breath, fighting back the waves of pain threatening to render him unconscious.

A shadow fell across his sight. He looked up to see the Uruk-hai who had raped him, heading toward him with knife in hand, sure to slit his throat. Legolas wrenched at the chains wound round his deadened hands one last time.

Dimly he heard Aragorn's voice, and Gimli's roared answer. Then with a concussion that rocked him on his knees, Gimli's ax split the metal binding him. Legolas exerted all his strength to pull his arms from behind his back, vault to his feet and dive around the advancing Uruk-hai.

The creature whirled to follow. Legolas felt his legs give, pitching him to his face next to the slowly-dying fire. Reaching out, he closed his hand around a sturdy torch. As his nemesis came upon him, he rolled on his back and thrust the flaming log up with all his might.

The leader of the Uruk-hai stared down at him, past the fire now eating at his chest, and smiled, a hideous expression. His clawed hand fell atop Legolas' fingers, still clenched around the base of his makeshift weapon, then the creature leaned forward, the knife in his other hand rising to strike. Legolas lay, captured by the Uruk-hai's hand and his own weakness, and cursed the fate that would lead him to such an end.

Before the blow could land, relief came from two directions at once. Gimli's ax shattered the knees of the Uruk-hai, as Aragorn's sword flashed out, severing the head from the shoulders, bathing Legolas in hot black blood and relief strong enough to make him light-headed. The concerned faces of Man and Dwarf swam before his vision, but before he could reassure them he saw other, threatening faces coming up fast behind them.

"Back!" he cried with a voice gone harsh from screaming. Reaching for another flaming branch, he kicked the corpse of the Uruk-hai leader out of his way. His companions fell back and Legolas impaled the next attacker neatly with the branch, breaking it off in the creature's chest cavity then cramming the broken end down his gaping maw.

Throwing himself out of blade's reach, he ducked. Aragorn swung over his head, neatly decapitating the on-rushing Uruk-hai as Gimli crushed the skull of a third with his ax. Legolas found himself lying atop his own discarded clothing and weapons. His heart sang as he laid hands on his bow and blades. His quiver was gone, and his arrows with it, but he still had his Elven sword, and he put it to good use.

The fight was near an end, as the surviving Orcs retreated into the shadows to await another day's battle and the Uruk-hai were reduced to composite piles of bloody flesh rent apart by furious blades. Battle lust slowly cleared from Legolas' mind. As it dissipated, so did his strength, until he sagged a few feet from the fire, leaning on his sword. He was reaching for his cloak, intent on subduing the worst of the chills that wracked his frame, when the world tilted and went dark.

 

The tide of the battle had turned in their favor, but the enemies were mind-boggling in number, and Gimli knew they had to take advantage where they found it. He turned from the cooling corpse of his last foe to see Legolas crumple gracefully to the ground. Forcing his aching legs to move, he reached Legolas' side a bare moment before Aragorn.

Taking the fallen Elf into his arms, he swung him as gently as possible over his shoulder, ignoring the rank smell coming from his abused body. Aragorn nodded toward the North, away from the massing Orcs, then took up Legolas' belongings and headed off into the trees. Gimli nipped at his heels, even with the burden of Legolas' weight, anxious to be gone from the scene of horror and tend to the Elf's wounds.

They traveled until the sun was at its peak, stopping only when the enemy army was far from sight, making camp at the side of a swiftly-flowing stream. The forest was beautiful in the daylight, soul-sustaining in its peace. A stunning counterpoint to the battered body of the Elf Gimli placed gently on the soft grass. Seen in full daylight, away from the rush of battle, Legolas' appearance rocked Gimli to his foundation.

It was unnatural for such a pristine being to be so badly used. Breath barely moved the bloody chest. Dark lashes couldn't disguise the deep shadows below the closed eyes. Were it not for the blood that continued to slowly seep from the cuts in the white skin, and the hint of breath occasionally shifting his ribs, Gimli would be sure Legolas was indeed dead.

"We cannot remain here," he blurted to Aragorn, eyes fixed on Legolas. "He must see a healer. An Elven healer, one who can ..." Fix him, remained unsaid. Aragorn cocked his head as if he heard despite Gimli biting his tongue on the words.

Brushing past Gimli, Aragorn knelt at Legolas' side, hands firm but gentle as they roamed over the broken flesh. His fingers mapped skin and the muscle and bone beneath, from the bruised, filthy face with the lacerated cheek all the way down to the ankles with their rings of flesh shredded nearly to the bone. He looked up at Gimli, and, oddly, appeared somewhat reassured.

"Take his feet, and help me turn him over."

Aragorn took hold of Legolas' shoulders and Gimli hurried to comply, turning the Elf onto his belly with as much care as possible. Still, a groan issued forth at their handling, and Gimli grimaced in sympathetic response. If the front had been appalling, the back view was worse.

Gimli tried to avert his gaze from the worst of the damage, but his eyes kept trailing back to the bruised and reddened buttocks, the blood and brackish fluids leaking from the torn opening. A fresh rush of rage reddened Gimli's vision, and for an instant he wished the Uruk-hai alive again, that he might slaughter them a second time. They had died too easily the first, for the damage they had wrought.

The examination began anew, from mud- and blood-crusted scalp down the length of his body to his feet. Aragorn was as gentle, and as thorough, as was required, parting the abused flesh and probing to determine the extent of the damage. What he found made him swear softly beneath his breath.

"What?" Gimli asked anxiously. "Is he hemorrhaging? We must get him to his people, to a healer!"

"No," Aragorn responded steadily, although the white line around his lips visible through his beard made it clear he was far from calm. "He is whole, but the injury is exacerbated by the poison in the monster's fluids. We haven't time to get him to an Elven healer. I must treat him now, before infection sets in and the poison destroys him from inside out."

Gimli started to expostulate, then paused as Aragorn raised a hand.

"I can help him, Gimli. As horrible as his injuries appear, most are surface damage, and Elves are fast healers." He took a deep breath and reached for Legolas' shoulders again. "Help me get him to the water. First we must wash away the filth and the poison, then I can tend to his wounds."

Barely had they settled Legolas by the side of the stream and begun to sluice water over his limbs when he returned to consciousness with a wild yell. Gimli ducked out of the way of a fist and ended up arse-end down in the water, whilst Aragorn made the mistake of trying to reach for Legolas and took a punch to the jaw for his pains. The blow was strong enough to send him reeling. Once all hands were off him, Legolas headed for the trees at high speed.

Pulling himself out of the stream, Gimli shook the water away and stared at Aragorn, who was massaging his jaw and blinking pain-tears away. "Well? Let's be off after him!" They hadn't gone to the trouble of rescuing the Elf just for Legolas to go mad and run off into the forest. "He is in no condition to be haring off on his own," Gimli grumbled into his beard. Before he got two steps, Aragorn caught hold of his sleeve and stopped him. "What?"

Looking off the way Legolas had gone, Aragorn said something Elvish in a clear strong voice. Then he waited.

"What?" repeated Gimli, more quietly.

"I asked him to return. Said that we needed him."

Gimli squinted up at Aragorn. It might work. The Man had a point with having Legolas return to them of his own accord rather than chasing after him. Even injured, no Man or Dwarf could keep pace with an Elf on the run.

Long moments passed, so long Gimli was set to try to catch Legolas regardless of the fact that it was an impossible task, when there was a rustle in the trees. A scratched pale leg appeared, then a matted blond head, braids torn and straggling, followed by the whole of the Elf, looking hunted and shaky.

Gimli tensed but followed Aragorn's lead, staying still as Legolas returned to them, one tentative step followed by another. Legolas' eyes darted between them, and while the shaking increased, so did the confidence in his step, until he was within arm's-reach of Aragorn.

Then he passed out again. Gimli caught him before he hit the ground.

 

An unconscious Elf was much easier to bathe and treat than a conscious one, Aragorn decided wryly. With Gimli's help, he cleansed Legolas from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Gimli balanced the deadweight, as Legolas didn't regain consciousness, and were it not for the deep breathing and bonelessness of exhaustion, Aragorn would have been worried. But he had seen this before, with Elves pressed past their legendary endurance. He knew it to be a healing sleep Legolas desperately needed to regain his strength.

Not that Gimli was convinced. He urged Aragorn several more times to get Legolas to Elven healers, until Aragorn finally asked, "What then of our mission? How will Legolas react to us abandoning Merry and Pippen to the Orcs, after already feeling we abandoned Frodo, when he would know that I could have healed him and we could have continued? Are you willing to carry that burden of guilt for him?"

The logic silenced Gimli's protests, even as it disgruntled him. Aragorn brushed wet hair back from Legolas' still face and settled his cloak around him. "There are plants I must gather," he told Gimli. "I'll return within the hour. Make sure he stays covered."

Gimli nodded and hovered, as if his very presence could act as a fire to warm Legolas. Aragorn smiled briefly at the protective air of the Dwarf, then went hunting for medicine. The shadow of evil had not permeated every corner of the forest, and the bright flowers still grew. It took him little time to gather what he needed, and return to his companions. Marigold, comfrey, mint, lavender and witch hazel to leech the poison from his skin and speed the healing of the abrasions and contusions. Gimli looked up at him with relief when he appeared.

"He's been muttering. Most of it was gibberish to me, Elvish curses, but his restlessness concerns me."

Aragorn placed his finds carefully beside Legolas and began working them into usable form. "It's a good sign," he reassured Gimli. "His body is fighting to heal. He will be like this at least a day." He glanced up from the leaves he was splitting, smile briefly returning at the sight of Gimli gently plucking twigs from Legolas' hair. "We'll have to take turns at watch, one with Legolas and one keeping an eye out for Orcs."

Gimli's head came up, and his eyes sparked under his heavy brows as he glared threateningly into the distance. He nodded once, then carefully shifted Legolas' head from his knee, settling it on the grass before standing. "I will take watch while you see to his hurts," he told Aragorn gruffly, then took up his ax and positioned himself to stand guard.

"Thank you," Aragorn said softly, but he knew Gimli heard from the way his broad shoulders straightened. Turning back to his preparations, he packed poultices against the worst of the cuts, wrapping the strained muscles and bruised flesh securely. Once Legolas' limbs, chest and belly were cared for, Aragorn slowly shifted him onto his stomach. He could only be thankful the Uruk-hai hadn't gelded the Elf in the course of their torture, but aside from scrapes and bruising, Legolas was whole.

The long welts from more than one beating were simple to clean if painful to endure. Aragorn placed poultices on the deeper cuts, massaged the wrenched shoulders and soothed the injured back and flanks with gel from cut leaves and crushed flowers.

That done, he was left the worst of the injuries to tend. Taking a steadying breath, moving with extreme care, he parted Legolas' buttocks and applied an unguent of pulped herbs to the injuries he had previously bathed. Washing away the scalding semen had helped tremendously, and he could already see signs of healing.

Physically, at least. The aftereffects of the attack on Legolas' spirit would take more time and care to alleviate.

When the last of the wounds were treated, Aragorn turned Legolas on his side, pillowing his head with a bundled cloak and spreading another over him. Legolas murmured something too softly for Aragorn to hear, then curled up under the cloak and slept deeply. Aragorn watched over him, refreshing dressings as needed, keeping him warm and calming his restlessness with a hand to his brow or his shoulder, all through the long night.

Morning found Gimli beside him, heavy-eyed but determined to remain on-guard, eating an apple with more purpose than enthusiasm. Aragorn patted Legolas' shoulder through the cloak one last time, then stood and stretched his cramped muscles.

"Sit with him," he invited Gimli, who needed no further prompting to take Aragorn's place at Legolas' side. Legolas made a sound, a cross between a sigh and a wordless complaint, and Gimli patted him carefully, if a little awkwardly, on the shoulder where Aragorn had touched him.

Legolas responded as if the touch had been a cue, or perhaps permission. Nose twitching, eyes still closed, neither completely asleep nor awake, he turned toward Gimli and burrowed against him, face nestling into his beard. Another sound escaped him, of contentment this time. Gimli stared down at the Elf draped over his lap with an expression of bemusement.

Then with a smile so soft it blended into his beard and disappeared, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a fine-toothed comb, handle encrusted with tiny jewels. Aragorn had seen him use it on his beard when they had stayed in Lothlo'rien, to look his finest for the lady he swore would not ensnare him. The fact that Gimli left entranced by the Lady Galadriel had not escaped anyone's notice.

Setting the comb gently in Legolas' drying hair, Gimli drew it through the blond strands, patiently unsnarling the braids ruined by rough hands. As each long section was smoothed, Gimli would braid it neatly, not as delicately as Elven fingers could manage, but skillfully nonetheless. Aragorn watched for a moment, oddly soothed by the motions of the large square hands in the silky hair, before turning and striding away to take the first day watch.

Hours passed, and the woods remained still, save for the muted sounds coming from their own small camp. Aragorn gathered more plants in case of need, ate a simple supper, and roamed the perimeter, ever alert for threat. As night settled on the land, he circled back to the stream, where Gimli still sat holding Legolas, softly stroking the now neatly-braided blond hair.

Legolas' hands were clutching Gimli's beard, and for once, the Dwarf wasn't complaining. He was however staring at Legolas in consternation, as the bruised face flinched from unseen blows and the long limbs twitched. Putting one hand over both Legolas', Gimli said quietly, "Crazy Elf!"

Aragorn stopped in his tracks and looked at him. True, they were words the Dwarf had used to Legolas when he was out of sorts with the Elf, but under the circumstances they seemed out of place. Legolas took no notice, too deeply entrenched in his nightmare. Still, Gimli made no move to wake Legolas. He waited a moment, then repeated more loudly, "Crazy Elf!"

Continuing on his way until he stood beside the two, Aragorn looked askance at Gimli, who paid him no heed, still staring at Legolas. "Crazy Elf!" he said again, no more loudly but with a great deal of conviction. Aragorn narrowed his eyes and ventured a question.

"How do you believe insulting him will help?"

Gimli glanced up at him and shrugged. "I don't wish him to run away again." Before Aragorn could ask how the one was connected to the other, Gimli returned to staring intensely at Legolas and calling him "Crazy Elf" several more times. Wondering if the strain of the past months had finally cracked Gimli, Aragorn opened his mouth.

Then shut it again before a word could escape, as Legolas stopped twitching, opened one bleary blue eye, and said clearly, "Stubborn Dwarf!" The eye dropped shut again, and his body relaxed back into sleep, but his death grip on Gimli's beard eased and he appeared to have escaped his nightmare. Gimli gave Aragorn a grin and a wink.

"He'll be all right," he muttered, a wealth of satisfaction in the words. Aragorn found himself smiling back, inclined to believe him.

 

Legolas slept the day through, and Gimli watched over him, as was his duty and his right. Aragorn came by, added sweet-smelling messes to the leaves binding Legolas' wounds, shared a nod and returned to patrolling the perimeter.

He told Gimli once that he should rest, but Gimli shook off his concern. To rest he would have to leave off holding Legolas, and Legolas was resting, so he would not do so. He found it reassuring in a strange way to have Legolas nested in his beard. No one could harm his Elf whilst they were so close.

Besides, he was a Dwarf, and his people's strength was legendary. So he told himself as Aragorn dropped down beside him with the setting sun. Gimli sighed deeply as he gently untangled Legolas' hands from his beard and settled the sleeping Elf next to Aragorn. With one final pat to the golden head, he nodded at Aragorn and strode off to take his turn at watch.

Gnawing at a tuber root, enjoying the taste and, admittedly, the energy it gave him, he trudged through the forest, eyes and ears tuned for incoming threat. It was late in the night before any sound other than the natural song of the woods disturbed him. It took a moment for him to realize it came from the camp behind him, not the forest surrounding him.

Immediately, his mind leapt to defense, thinking somehow the Orcs had slunk past him. Yet there was no sound of battle. That very lack kept him at his quietest as he crept up to peer into the camp, ready to spring to defense if needed.

What met his eyes nearly caused him to drop his ax. Legolas sat atop the cloak now, not wrapped in its folds. His skin glowed in the moonlight, even marred as it was with reddened stripes and patches of purple. Aragorn had been right; Elves were fast healers, and Legolas was healing well. Well enough that he could sink into Aragorn's arms, feast on Aragorn's mouth, and wrap himself around Aragorn's body like moss on a tree.

Then Aragorn drew back, and Gimli wondered how that was possible. Had he found himself with a lap full of willing Legolas, it would take the strength of a score of Dwarves to separate them. In the still night air, Aragorn's words carried clearly, whispered as they were.

If only Gimli spoke Elvish. As it was, all he could do was wait and watch. Perhaps he shouldn't do either, but only the imminent threat of attack by a horde of Orcs and Uruk-hai could have drawn him away.

 

"I would not wish to hurt you," Aragorn whispered, and Legolas took a deep breath.

"You will only hurt me if you refuse to touch me," he responded, the Elvish phrases sliding through the air like music. "For then I will know I am truly despoiled."

Aragorn flinched as if struck. Pain coiled low in Legolas' belly. It had nothing to do with his physical injuries. His hand fell from Aragorn's cheek, and he began to turn away.

Only to be stopped by a callused hand tenderly touching his own bruised cheek. "Nothing can make you less than what you are," Aragorn said softly. "Defender, companion, warrior and friend. I sought only to be careful of the injuries done you, not to add more to your burden."

"These marks are transitory, and with your care will soon be gone," Legolas answered, gesturing vaguely at the wounds already fading from his skin. "Others are less visible, and harder to cleanse. Will you help me heal them, as well?"

The answer came not in words, but deed, as Aragorn slid his hand down to cup Legolas' chin, pulling him forward into a deep kiss. Legolas slid into the familiar heat, finding comfort beyond arousal in it. The lives of Men were short, and Legolas avoided entanglement with them because of it, but Aragorn had a sliver of his heart and it had been so for years. He well knew that Arwen waited, sacrificing her long years for the chance of a lifetime with Aragorn, but he would find peace in his friend's arms while he still could.

Hesitation forgotten, or drowned in Legolas' need, Aragorn shifted forward, drawing them both down onto the warmth of the cloak. Legolas' hands drifted over Aragorn's raiment, strong slender fingers making short work of the bindings, until Aragorn's body was as bare to the night air as his own.

Sometime after he'd tended to Legolas' wounds he'd bathed, and his skin carried the scent of the forest, green growing things and fresh air. The remnants of the flowers and leaves on his hands echoed the stronger smell of the same remedies at work on Legolas' injuries.

His beard was crisp beneath Legolas' fingertips, his hair silky, flowing over the soft skin and hard muscle of his shoulders. Legolas followed the fingertip trail with his mouth, nuzzling the slight salt tang from Aragorn's neck, following the line of tendon across bone thinly covered by skin roughened with springy hair. He rooted through the curls on Aragorn's chest in much the same manner he'd burrowed into Gimli's beard the previous day, had he but known it. When his lips found a nipple, he played for long moments, drawing it to hardness with his tongue.

Above his head, Aragorn was panting, and Legolas darted a wicked glance upward to see the Man's bright green eyes staring down at him with naked hunger. It was a balm to the burn on his soul from the torment of the Uruk-hai, and he reveled in it.

Emboldened, he ventured further, losing himself in the scent and taste of Aragorn, arms sliding around the strong waist, up the long muscles of his back then down to knead the solid curve of his buttocks. Movement beside his head made him flinch for a split second before continuing his exploration. He glanced up again to see Aragorn, unaware of his momentary hesitation, biting his fist to contain his moans.

Passion had hardened Aragorn so that by the time Legolas stopped wandering and took his length into his mouth, the salt-slick bitterness on his tongue wiped away the lingering memory of the Uruk-hai's pollution. With a sudden urgency, Legolas sucked deeply, taking Aragorn into his throat until his chin rubbed against the coarse curls at his groin.

The sounds Aragorn tried to stifle were audible even around his fist, and they increased Legolas' hunger. Swallowing around the flesh stretching his mouth, he sucked until his jaw ached, his arms wrapped tightly around Aragorn's hips, his hands gripping hard enough to leave bruises on the lightly-furred thighs.

Soon, too soon, Aragorn pushed at his head, trying to draw him away before climax was upon him. Legolas would have no part of it. Closing his eyes, the better to concentrate on the scent and the taste of the Man, Legolas redoubled his efforts. Aragorn made a stifled noise that might have been protest or accolade, then stiffened and arched against him.

Legolas swallowed quickly, drinking greedily, until the shiver became a shudder and the flesh was over-sensitive to his touch. Only then would he allow Aragorn to push his head away, slide lower in his embrace, and share the seed coating his tongue in a kiss.

The meeting of their mouths was no less hungry, if much more leisurely, than the meeting of their bodies. Aragorn returned the favor Legolas showed him, pushing with tender determination until Legolas finally released him and lay back on the cloak.

With the edge of urgent need abated, Aragorn took his time with Legolas. He traced every mark not covered with bandage or poultice, the sweetness of his tongue drawing the last of the sting from the healing cuts and fading bruises. His hands followed his mouth, soothing and easing the tension from the quivering muscles, until Legolas was a limp bundle of limbs sprawled at Aragorn's generous mercy.

The only part of him that had not melted like wax was his erection. Aragorn took his time there as well, combing through the straight silky hair covering Legolas' sac with his fingertips until even that feather-touch electrified, before he allowed himself to stroke along the straining shaft. Legolas called on centuries of restraint to keep himself from screaming at him to get on with it, finding himself enjoying the sensation of balancing on the knife's edge of orgasm. One final sweeping touch, one final wet kiss to the tip, and he spasmed, his silence broken only by a single gasp.

Drowsy now, he smiled up at Aragorn, sharing another long kiss. Then Aragorn rose on his elbows above him and asked seriously, "May I?"

The heat brushing against his thigh, leaving a trail of salt-wet thick behind it, made his intentions clear. Legolas waited for the hesitation he half-expected to result from his violation, but none came. He took a deep breath and turned beneath Aragorn, glancing back over his shoulder with as much invitation as he could muster.

It was more than enough, judging by the darkening of Aragorn's eyes and the brush of his knuckles against Legolas' buttocks as he took himself in a quick grip to forestall coming before-time. The sight and scent of him were heady, and Legolas dropped his cheek to the soft material of the cloak, at the same time pushing up with his hips. His message was as clear as Aragorn's earlier request, and the strangled moan that met his movement thanked him for his eagerness.

Care and condition dictated a slow pace, and Aragorn was a healer to his bones. By the time he moved up to mount Legolas the Elf was nearly out of his mind with need. Aragorn prolonged his preparation with fingers, then tongue, then fingers again, then once again tongue, until Legolas thrashed below him, thrusting up to meet his fingers, trying to trap more of his tongue within his body.

Aragorn ran a questing hand around Legolas' hip, finding him partially hard and slick, more response than he'd honestly expected given what Legolas had survived. The lack of erection was no impediment to his need, however, and he let Aragorn know with a fierce, "Now! Fill me!" as he moved under him.

Swallowing thickly, shaking with the force of his desire reined back under an iron shield to safeguard Legolas from further injury, Aragorn slid into him slowly. At least, that was his intention. Legolas circumvented it by the simple act of bucking up hard, taking Aragorn to the root.

"Legolas!"

Aragorn's voice was unsteady, and Legolas couldn't tell if his name was meant as reprimand or endearment. Relieved at the sting of the bulk filling him, driving out the worst of the memories of the Uruk-hai, Legolas merely shook his head and moaned softly. Shifting his hips up and down, he drove himself back onto Aragorn each time Aragorn pushed him away. Met with such abandoned determination, Aragorn conceded defeat and made love to him as Legolas demanded.

Their coupling was long and slow, steady and comforting until arousal grew too strong to be denied. Gradually as Aragorn moved within him, Legolas let go of the tensions gripping him and sighed as his erection filled. Their pace began to hasten, and Aragorn's hand gripped him, the rasp of his calluses against the tender skin unbearable yet necessary as oxygen.

Legolas felt the storm gather at his back and dropped his hand over Aragorn's, squeezing the fingers fisted around him and pumping harder. Orgasm hit him and he bit back a moan that would have shaken the trees, his hand falling away as Aragorn held him through the spasms.

Then Aragorn thrust once more, and his seed when he spilled it finally cleansed the wounds left behind by the Uruk-hai. It burned as well, but the burn was the salt of the sea and the sweetness of the earth, the heart of the Man healing the soul of the Elf.

Held fast in Aragorn's arms, the heat of him stretched along Legolas' back and legs, resting still in the depths of his body, Legolas gave in to the contentment filling him and took his rest while he could. The worst was past, and there was a mission to complete. Hobbits to rescue. Evil to eradicate. For Aragorn, at the end, there was Arwen. And for Legolas?

He fell asleep with the question still echoing faintly in his mind.

 

Whatever he'd said, Legolas convinced Aragorn to continue, and Gimli was helpless to do aught but keep watch. The depth of tenderness between Man and Elf was a revelation. He scarcely blinked as Legolas kissed Aragorn from his mouth to his knees and everywhere in between.

The sight of the Elf so obviously enjoying the Man's hairy body and thin beard made Gimli's palms itch and his crotch tingle. The memory of Legolas clutching his beard so determinedly the previous day returned to him, and he wasn't surprised to feel his prick harden.

Then Aragorn was bucking, filling Legolas' mouth, then they were kissing, and Gimli found himself licking lips gone dry as rock dust. Aragorn moved over Legolas now, and Gimli thought he'd never seen anything so lovely, not in all the beauteous works of stone and metal, gem and finely-wrought steel, as the way the moonlight and Aragorn's hands painted Legolas' bare skin. The bruises and welts faded in the night shadows, until all that remained was the pink flush of nipples, the thatch of spun gold at his groin so fine he could see the reddened flesh holding the hard nuts beneath, the milky pearl seeping from the tip of Legolas' prick to be swept away by Aragorn's tongue.

The hard voice of his conscience, which sounded uncomfortably like his father, instructed him sternly to leave the couple to their privacy. But since that same voice was the one who'd taught him to hate Elves, and at the moment the one thing above all others in the universe that he wanted was to mate with one, it made no impact on his actions. Legolas chose that moment to gasp, and arch, and the sweat gilding his skin caused Gimli to liken it to the purest silver ever mined.

Expecting the tryst to have run its course, he was surprised and further enflamed when they kissed again, and Legolas turned over to offer Aragorn his arse. Gimli nearly broke cover and protested; surely, after the abuse he had suffered, Legolas was in no condition to be fucked. But Aragorn was a healer as well as a king, and he must have known his patient's limits, because he proceeded to gift Legolas with the most exquisite foreplay it had ever been Gimli's privilege to spy.

His hands were busy in Legolas' arse, then trailing along his back as he buried his face where his fingers had prepared the way. Then he did it all over again. By the time he moved to mount Legolas, Gimli was close to bursting. When Legolas cried softly, "Now, fill me!" that did it.

Gimli came in his pants as Legolas impaled himself on Aragorn's prick.

Coming so hard made his head spin and his eyes cloud. It was some time before he stopped shaking and could force his eyes to focus. When they did, he exclaimed to himself in awe.

They were still going at one another, steady in their pace as if they had eternity, not one night's peace in the midst of war. Aragorn's arm disappeared around Legolas' waist, moving in concert with his hips as he thrust, and Gimli bit back a pained groan as his spent prick twitched in its soggy prison.

He reached into his trousers and soothed his irritated flesh, eyes still caught by the tableau of dark and light moving as one. Then Legolas gave a muffled yelp, shaking in Aragorn's firm grip, and Aragorn shuddered as well. Locked together, they subsided, Legolas remaining in Aragorn's encompassing embrace.

Gimli maintained watch as Aragorn pulled the bundled cloak Legolas had been using for a pillow over the two of them, then buried his nose in Legolas' hair and joined him in slumber. When he was sure the two were well asleep, he unfolded his deadened legs and shook himself all over. He had another watch to keep, and he'd best be about keeping it.

As he walked the perimeter of the camp and roamed through the forest, eyes searching for threat of Orc, Uruk-hai or anything else that might harm his two weary companions, Gimli reflected that the enemy had no idea what fury they had unleashed. Come morning, the hunt would begin again, with renewed purpose, and it would not end until the Hobbits were safe. Any and every Uruk-hai that got in the way would end up in pieces behind them.

That cheerful thought prompted him to wonder about the future, for the first time since their quest began. As he did, vague thoughts of silver and gems draped over fine sweat-sheened skin and golden hair stirred just below the surface of his thoughts, and warmed him through the rest of the night. And for many nights to come.

_end_


End file.
